Barbara Ann

Images related to “Heading to Horn Island”

A teenage Barbara Ann with Grandma Terry Green on Horn Island, a long barrier island in the Gulf off the Mississippi coast.

Pa Wes and Grandma Terry hauling in some shrimp off Horn Island circa 1962.

Heading to Horn Island

Heading to Horn Island
Hum of the outboard
Hint of diesel
Hot Mississippi sun

Heading to Horn Island
From Biloxi, from Ocean Springs
From Pascagoula, the Singing River

Almost to Horn Island
Sitting up in the bow
Pounding over the wake
Salt spray on my face

Approaching Horn Island
Horizon of endless brilliance
Sand sugar white
Gulf lazy, azure flat

Put in to Horn Island
A spot all to ourselves
We are quiet
Only birds calling and
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand

Here on Horn Island
We break out the nets
Grandma Terry and Pa Wes
Take hold of an end
Encircle a bounty of shrimp
Shrimp for boiling, shrimp for frying
Shrimp for etouffe

Here on Horn Island
We bait strings hang ‘em off the stern
Soon crabs come
Crabs for crab cakes, crabs for stuffing
Females for Grandma’s she-crab soup

Here on Horn Island
The ice chest becomes a treasure chest
Grandma Terry doles out sandwiches
After a good swim
We drink sweet iced tea
And all the while
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand

Here on Horn Island
We laugh ‘bout the time the
Baby blue Ford pickup and ole trailer hitch
Got stuck in the mud

We laugh ‘bout the time
We forgot our bathing suits
Pa Wes taught us the joy of skinny dipping
Right here on Horn Island with
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand

* * *
We interrupt this memory
To bring you news of a brown sheen
Oily waves lapping the dark tainted sand
Oily waves lapping the dark tainted sand

Tar balls and top kills
Top hat, you big rat
Deepwater offshore 
Awful explosion

Eleven dead
Horizon of endless Hades
Sinking platform sinking hearts
Hemorrhaging millions of barrels
Oil boiling men toiling
Yet no relief in sight
Horizon of endless arrogance
Blow out preventer
Truth out preventer
No back-up plan presenter

Barrier islands
Barrier beaches
Barrier to truth
Baby birds covered in glistening greed
Sight sickening
Fishermen finished
Trawlers troubled 
Marshes murdered

Waves of dead fish on Waveland beaches
Pelicans again in peril
Oil washing up on Petit Bois Island
No petty matter, not out of the woods yet 
Will miles of boom hold as oily waves loom?

Horizon of endless arrogance
Dispersant used to hide the bodies
A mile down under the surface
Oil coating tiny creatures
Diamonds of diatoms
Fragile fish eggs, lacy lacerated larvae
Generational genocide
Food chain of failure
Oily waves lapping the dark tainted sand
Oily waves lapping the dark tainted sand

Oh how I long to head to Horn Island
Horizon of endless brilliance
Sand sugar white lazy Gulf azure flat
Oh how I long for
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand
Gentle waves lapping the sugar white sand

(Dedicated to Terry and Wesley Green RIP in Ocean Springs, Mississippi)

Honey Locust Invitation

Mid-May honey locust blossoms
From the tall stately tree
In our own front yard
Like an aphrodisiac to me

Like the Kama Sutra
Like entangled glyphs on ancient temple walls
Like ambrosia of the Greco-Roman gods 
Like pharaohs given baths by kohl-eyed slave girls 
Like Persian miniatures of sensuous beauties and minarets at sundown

Like furtive looks in hookah bars from eyes slightly stoned
Like aromatics from hole-in-the-wall shops in the Village
Like in bazaars where you fumbled with unfamiliar currency
Like an aura of perfume that encircles a woman 
Like her tapestried sari as she breezes through Customs 

Like incense sticks you bought in head shops when your head
Was smaller and less stuck with responsible thoughts
Like teenage memories of exotic World’s Fair pavilions 
Like a silk scarf that lines a drawer where 
You spilled a bottle of patchouli that time

Like that powder applied with the fine feathered brush
You bought in the soap shop no longer there
Like the henna hair and the senna leaf tea
That you tried when you lived up in the mountains by the sea
Like the secret musk of sheets after love making

Come outside
Come smell the honey locust with me
The tree so tall, its bark with deep creviced mysteries
The blossoms so far up 

Stretch higher and higher till you catch a whiff
The blossoms falling like gentle white rain 
Ephemeral
Caressing your face

I’ve waited all year for this day
The day of the honey locust blooms
Each morning, each afternoon, each evening
In misty rain, in sun, in darkness
I’ve waited patiently 
Make a palette on the ground
Line our bed with its blossoms
Now

O Hudson, My Hudson

O mighty Hudson 
I’ve loved you from the start
Your headwaters at tiny Lake Tear of the Clouds
That time I camped in your presence
When it rained after I’d climbed all day 
Taking the less traveled stream bed 
To that ultimate peak, Tahawus.

That night when I was alone with mournful loons
After days of backpacking solo, trance-like
Keeping a fire going despite a gentle drizzle
Me, afraid in the sputtering campfire glow
Many bears had been spotted.

O mighty Adirondacks
Scaling your high peaks
Delving into your deep gorges
Gliding silent canoes 
Never startling the deer
Listening to white throated sparrow and thrush.

Then taking wing down to the Dutch Fort Orange
Living in the houses of Ten Eyck, van Rensselaer, Ten Broeck
Living where the Hudson meets the Mohawk
Watching the crackling ice melt that day from the old Stockade.

Down to picturesque villages of 
Saugerties, New Paltz, Phoenicia
Hiking the worn-down Catskills
Up into the sheer Gunks
And with noiseless footfalls
Down Slide Mountain
Echoes of soft moccasins
Treading lightly on steep trails
Alongside the east and west banks 
Within sight of deep forests of game
River sturgeon thriving, respected
Speared only as needed
Its scutes primordial, sacred.

O mighty Hudson
Breathe in your light
Your glorious haze of morning
Your rich pastels of sunset
Europeans sailing their wooden ships 
Overcome by your staggering beauty
With easel, song and pen they capture your essence.

To the great promontories and sweeping views
The citadel at West Point
The trap set by colonists to net British ships
Across the narrowest part of the river
Downriver, the battle of Yorktown
Let souls rest in peace in Sleepy Hollow.

O mighty Hudson
Where commerce quickens 
Fishing boats, barges, steamers
En route to Albany
But first we fish in Fishkill
Light the way in Beacon
You’re a queen in Kingston
Drink wine in Rhinebeck
We boat in Croton
Quench our thirst in Cold Spring
Don boating hats in Haverstraw
Wide as a lake as we make our way downriver 
Where the Palisades rise on the west bank.

And now to that once quaint village of Peter Stuyvesant
That small island of metamorphic rock 
Stalwart in the deep Hudson Canyon 
Where you endlessly deliver yourself to the abyss of the mother
There alongside you I ran in Riverside Park 
Fragrance of cherry blossoms along the boat basin
Mingled with the familiar river musk
Rising to my window a dozen stories above you.

Follow you all the way downtown where tall masts
Fleets of every nation
Speak the language of commerce
Charthouse, counting house, courthouse
Print house, tenement house, playhouse
Firehouse, slaughterhouse, chophouse 
Fish house, steakhouse, alehouse
Customs house, wheelhouse
Coming full circle
A worthy end to you 
O my mighty Hudson
We raise our flags of liberty 
And salute you.

To The Mothers (Happy Mother’s Day 2010)

To the mothers who are joyous
To the mothers who are glad
To the mothers who are pious
To the mothers who are sad.

To the mothers who are humble
To the mothers who are proud
To the mothers who speak softly
To the mothers who cry out loud.

To the mothers in their nineties
To the mothers in their teens
To the mothers full of passion
To the mothers full of beans.

To the mothers who sing with laughter
To the mothers who paint with joy
To the mothers happily ever after
To the mothers who still annoy.

To the mothers who are not mothers
To the mothers who are just real
To the mothers who are pushovers
To the mothers who make a deal.

To the mothers who care for mothers
To the mothers who care for dad
To the mothers who care for others
To the mothers who wish they had.

To the mothers with no regrets
To the mothers who have a few
To the mothers with a heart of gold
To the mothers who have two.

To the mothers with all the answers
To the mothers without a clue
To the mothers who are dancers
To the mothers who’ll walk with you.

To the mothers from every country
To the mothers from every tribe
To the mothers of every color
To the mothers keeping hope alive.

To the mothers who stretch the dinner
To the mothers who sacrifice
To the mothers who are growing thinner
To the mothers without the rice.

To the mothers who have plenty
To the mothers who have none
To the mothers who stay at home
To the mothers on the run.

To the mothers who must cover
To the mothers without a face
To the mothers we can’t see
To the mothers who leave no trace.

To the mothers through the ages
To the mothers who were Eve
To the mothers who bore the children
To the mothers who did not conceive.

To the mothers with their daughter
To the mothers with their son
To the mothers who are serious
To the mothers who are fun.

To the mothers who are sexy
To the mothers who’ve given up
To the mothers who are ditzy
To the mothers livin’ it up.

To the mothers who nurture
To the mothers who cook
To the mothers who heal us
To the mothers who just look.

To the mothers who are in chemo
To the mothers who are in jail
To the mothers who are in rehab
To the mothers who had to bail.

To the mothers who like to garden
To the mothers who hammer a nail
To the mothers who crew or pilot
To the mothers setting sail.

To the mothers feeling hemmed in
To the mothers feeling free
To the mothers kind and loving
To the mothers you and me.

To the mothers who worship
To the mothers who pray
To the mothers off OM-ing
To the mothers who stay.

To the mothers in their labor
To the mothers gave us birth
To the mothers bless the arbor
To the mothers who’ll save the earth.

Little Brooklyn Foxes

Me and Iris, just kids 
Listening to rock and roll on scratchy vinyl 
Listening to Murray the K on AM radio
Submarine race watching
Which really meant make out music
‘Though we weren’t supposed to know ‘bout that yet. 
We wanted to see what it was all about 
So we take the train to Brooklyn by ourselves
To see Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jan and Dean
And some Girl Group.
We were just eleven
But we were already little Brooklyn foxes. 

We get off the train just like papa said
We find the right subway just like papa said
Walk to the Brooklyn Fox Theater just like papa said.
‘Cept he remembered the ‘hood from the 1930s 
When he went to see nickel matinees
Sit in the balcony, marvel at all the art deco 
Watch Perils of Pauline, Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin 
Now we’re marching through broken sidewalks, broken dreams
But we get to that broken down theater in time to see

Little Richard playing that piano
Not the way my piano teacher played, no
Not the way my mother played, no
Not the way the nuns played, no
He just tutti-frutti-ed all over that keyboard
Kept that beat a’goin’ and hittin’ all those high notes 
But wait a minute, he looks different, he looks weird, he looks 
White. Is it? Yeah. 
He’s wearing makeup he has on pancake makeup 
The kind my mother puts on with a little wet sponge
But he has it spackled on his face
Something my dad would put on with a trowel
We weren’t even wearing makeup yet
But we were a couple of little Brooklyn foxes 
Who couldn’t get enough of that rock and roll music. 

We start screaming when Chuck Berry comes out on stage
Playing his guitar walking that crazy duck walk
The crowd goes wild he’s playing Maybellene 
Then he’s down on the floor of the stage
Still playing those riffs on his back
Then all of a sudden everybody rushes the stage
We get swept up in it 
The only little white girls from the ‘burbs
Right out front of all those tough kids from Bed Stuy
Tryin’ to cop a feel
And when Chuck sings ‘Why can’t you be true?’
I’m practically on the stage eye level and he’s singing right to me!
And it felt good ‘cause we were just a couple of little Brooklyn foxes
Who couldn’t get enough of that rock and roll music. 

Then out comes the cutest blond teenagers ever, Jan and Dean
And they really do sing a song about me:
Bar bar bar, bar Barbara Ann and we’re screamin’ and yelpin’
Dancin’ in the aisles
And now there’s a couple of cops with nightsticks
Tellin’ everybody: ‘Back off and get in yer seats’
But we keep dancin’ till the lights come up
We leave that theater a couple of years wiser
And all wound up.

Go next door now to the coffee shop
It’s a mob scene and we have ourselves an egg crème and fries
There, bigger than life, we see the Girl Group
Oh how I want to sing in a Girl Group
Be my, be my baby 
They’re all chiffon gowns and beehive hair dos 
But look close and they look like they’re wearin’ Halloween masks
Tons of makeup false eyelashes, Be my baby now!
But they were too scary to us
They looked like very big foxes 
Foxes that would eat their babies now.

So we head out and walk ‘round the corner
See two white teenagers 
In the alley back of the theater. 
One of them is throwing up
Maybe high, maybe sick, maybe scared
They were just a few years older than us
Just a couple of California surfer boys 
Iris and I look at each other
They were Jan and Dean 
And we were just a couple of little Brooklyn foxes
Who couldn’t get enough of that rock and roll music.

Every Sad Girl Does (In Memoriam)

It was a fine wedding, full of promise
Half of County Cork squeezed into that Brooklyn church
Bride and groom, right and left
Millie O’Grady, raven-haired wild Irish rose 
Could make you weep with her O Danny Boy
Come to marry her handsome, ruddy Bill O’Shea 
Sweet-faced imp could deliver a punch line 
That’d make your sides ache for a week.
They both had the gift, the spark 
A touch of the Blarney Stone.

The rice was thrown, Bill carried her over the threshold 
Gave her a cherry upright piano for the front room
It shone to reflect the map of Ireland that was her beautiful face 
She played hymns, she played ragtime, she played O Danny Boy.

She dreamed about the kids they’d have 
Three sets of twins
Take up a whole row at St. Malachy’s 
She’d teach ‘em all the old Irish songs
Teach ‘em how to play the piano
Learn the lines of the treble clef
Every Good Boy Does Fine

She polished the piano Tuesdays and Fridays
Put antimacassars on the wingback chairs
So the men could get comfortable.
Made the mirrors and the pots glisten
Readied the rooms
Thought of proper saint name for their first born
Every good boy does fine.
But a baby never came.

Went to church, lit a candle
Sang a prayer to be blessed with family
Crossed herself going past her own dear Da 
Buried there in the churchyard
Poor ole Daniel drank himself to death some said.
She went home, prayed some more
Polished the piano on Tuesdays.
Any good boy or girl will do fine, please God
But a baby never came.

So she became godmother to little Madeline.
Loved her beautiful face, sang her Irish lullabies
But there was a hole in her heart as big as Ireland. 
The years slipping by
Little Madeline toddling off to school now.
Every good girl does fine.

So Millie and Bill took on an orphan boy 
Named him little Billy all tousled hair and wide grin.
But a wild child was he, an untamed tiger cub
Rough housing, fists at the ready, getting into scrapes
Every good boy does sometime.
He couldn’t be soothed by Irish songs and stories
Big Bill didn’t like all that yelping and thrashing about 
He’d run out to O’Malley’s for a pint
Every day St. Patty’s Day
The wild child a wedge between them.

One Tuesday Millie forgot the polish but found the bottle
And thought: just one little drink.
And on Sunday, couldn’t keep Billy from throwing a tantrum 
Every boy does sometime
So she didn’t go to church, didn’t light a candle, didn’t visit Da’s grave.

But she’d get her old feelin’ back when she played stride 
A whiskey glass comfortable on the piano
Leaving a white circle on the polished cherry wood
Gotta keep that feeling so she’d pull a smoke from a
Black cherry-colored pack, light up 
Take a big inhale let the ash grow long
Curling the smoke up into the deep dark recesses 
Of her brood mare nostrils 
Sometimes when she got to playing,
She’d set a Pall Mall to rest on the piano 
Burn another black stripe
Every good girl does fine.

Times were hard, Bill lost his position,
He shaved every couple days, he was shiftless 
No funny man now, a no-count
Then too old to go off to war, Billy too young.
They’d fight and curse, but never face to face
Bill yelling from the horizontal of the sitting room couch, 
Billy pacing the back room surly, snarling, sneaking whiskey. 
Every boy does.

Big Bill doesn’t come home one Friday night
Little Billy doesn’t make Sunday dinner.
Now other men sit in the wingback chairs
Slick their pomade on the antimacassars
Wealthy salesmen, cute sailors on shore leave, Tin Pan Alley types,
Wildcatters and oil men back from the middle east
They leave their white rings cascading down the piano like
Bangles on a dancing girl’s arm.

Setting their cigars to rest on the piano
Clapping heartily to keep up with her as
She burned up those white and black and blue keys
Owning that piano as she lay astride those octaves
Better ‘an any man to take to those eighty eights. 

They called her Mildred now, coal-black curls shot with gray
Throws down whiskey neat with the best of them
Sings torch songs, plays barrelhouse 
Trades her true notes for blue notes
Discord resolving into disappointment 
She’s still got the gift but needs a coupla drinks, 
A pack o’ smokes.
Every sad girl does fine.

She burns photographs of Bill
She throws away pictures of Billy.
Then when she tries to picture Bill she pictures Billy 
Pictures her own Da. 
All of them jumbled up now
But she smiles at Madeline grown up, babies of her own
Every good girl does fine.

Mildred writes sad songs, boozy songs
How on the outside I’m rollicking good fun 
Getting people to throw it down in the kitchen
But on the inside I’m crying
Every sad girl does.

Then outta the blue, Mildred hears a song on the radio
A crooner sings her melody all pretty like
I’m laughing on the outside
A big band powers her answer 
I’m cryin’ on the inside
She sings in a deep throaty growl
They stole my song, they stole my grief, 
My only way to turn this nightmare inside out.
Every sad girl does something fine.

So one day when nobody was around, 
She sat at the piano, ran her fingers over the keys
Lit a cigarette, let the smoke curl up into her
Twin arches of hellfire eternal damnation.
Thought of her Da, her ole Danny Boy,
Things he’d done, still buried on hallowed ground.
Every bad boy should pay.

Mildred locked the door, stuffed towels under it 
Knelt in front of the gas oven and turned it on. 
But Millie didn’t strike a diamond wooden match stick
No, no pilot light to guide
She just let the gas slowly fill up the room. 
Every person good or bad goes.
No explosion, no fire, her spark long gone.
Just a quiet, sleeping release, crying on the inside.

***
Dedicated to the memory of the real Mildred O.
RIP

“I’m laughing on the outside
Crying on the inside
‘Cause I’m still in love with you”
Artist: Nat King Cole
Words by Ben Raleigh and music by Bernie Wayne
Charted in 1946 by Sammy Kaye

TELEPORT TO MOUNTAINS

wanted to teleport to the big noisy city
hear the poet from the top of the world
drink wine hob nob with the literati
dig the art scene

but a tragic obstacle
a fireball from hades
that stole a life brought
the collective consciousness
to a snarling standstill

so we stopped at
the nearest blue screen
teleported to the
planet of our virtual selves
pandora’s box full of
greed violence
trust beauty love
and dug the
floating mountains
instead

WINTER WHITE BURGUNDY

the mystics, the scientists
in rare accord
every seven years
the body transformed
made afresh
cells miraculousy replaced.

now it is seven years
since that winter eve
perfect champagne
heady floral bouquet
caviar rich and saline
served by dainty spoonful.

limo into new york luxe life
riding a wall street high
dinner sublime zagat heaven
vintage white burgundy
wrapped in vibrant hermes scarf.

had been a lifetime ago
since we’d been rapturous
and all we needed
our reunion kiss lingered, stirred
then i shrank back into my life.

today, renewed cells
emblazoned with visceral memory
wonder anew
what if?